


to take this off my shoulders

by four_leaf_chloe



Series: (i promise) i'll do better [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tony Stark, Regret, Tony Stark Has A Heart, flangst, he failed his kid oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/four_leaf_chloe/pseuds/four_leaf_chloe
Summary: “Dude,” Ned says late one evening, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You want to copy my notes again? You can’t just—” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “You can’t just sleep through class all the time and copy my stuff! You can’t keep doing this, Peter.”And it’s reasonable, it’s fine, it makes sense, of course, but—but there’s still a crushing weight that comes down on Peter’s chest (concrete dust and blood and freezing water, someonehelphim) when he hears it.Alone, alone, alone..spider-boy comes clean about something. specifically nightmares. more specifically, nightmares about falling buildings.tony is there for him to lean on.





	to take this off my shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> flangst is my love language

. 

. 

. 

The nightmares don’t happen _every_ night.

Just... a lot of nights.

A lot. It’s a lot.

A lot to deal with. To process, to make amends with. To—to _understand_. He didn’t think, in the heat of the battle, about the building that could’ve killed him. He pushed it back as he walked through fire, shoved it away. Didn’t think about almost dying like that. About the agony of concrete grinding him into nothing, of his bones shuddering until they cracked beneath the stress. He didn’t think about the concrete dust in his eyes and his mouth, the freezing water and the hot sticky blood, the rusted nails tearing into the meat of his left thigh and—

Peter jolts awake, gasping. Sweating.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stumbles out. Throws the covers off, too dizzy and—and—too _not here_ to think about the mess he’s making as he half-stumbles, half-crawls to the bathroom. Something crashes. It sounds like glass and reminds him of crumbling concrete.

 _No. No._ **_No_** _._

The walls are pressing in and the air is too thick, it’s too close, too close, he’s trapped and _no one’s coming, he’s alone,_ **_why is he so alone_** _—_

Peter hangs his head over the toilet bowl and retches. There’s shattered glass beneath his palms. 

 

* * *

 

May asks him to talk to her. Peter closes his eyes and seals his lips.

May _begs_ him to talk to her. Peter shoves his earbuds in and feels the hot sting of tears behind his eyelids.

May stops asking. But she does sit him down on the couch and pull him in close, and she whispers into his hair that she’s here, that she doesn’t know all of what he’s doing out there (and doesn’t like it, she _hates_ it and it _hurts_ her) but she’s _here_ , and Peter stops holding on (lets himself be held) and just cries. 

 

* * *

 

Peter knows May does not understand. That she can’t.

He knows, he knows, he gets it, he does. He shoulders the burden and feels more alone than he ever has.

He knows because he’s _tried_. He knows because she asked him, one night at two in the morning, tentative, afraid—she asked how his night went. How patrolling went. She asked what happened, how was it. Peter told her.

And he isn’t stupid, never has been. Peter saw the moment something cracked behind her smile. He tried to take it back, to assure her that no, no—he was just exaggerating—there weren’t _that_ many guns, he didn’t come _that_ close to the bullet, he just— _he just_ —but no. There was a decisive moment when May’s smile became suddenly false, and Peter saw straight through the facade.

He heard her cry that night. Heard her sob and knew she didn’t sleep.

Neither did he.

Peter can’t do this to her. Can’t burden her, because she doesn’t want him to do this (he knows she doesn’t) but she knows that he _has to_.

All it took was the whisper of Ben’s name on Peter’s lips and May got it. She got why.

She still knows why, and doesn’t stop him. Because he nearly cried when he told her he was saving lives out there, that if she stopped him people would die. Kids would lose their parents.

Parents would lose their _kids_.

Maybe that’s what did it, saying that. She lets him patrol now, so long as he sticks to her most basic ground rules.

But Peter can’t talk to her about this. About the nightmares, the hero stuff.

She’s _here_ , and yes, _yes_ that means everything.

But this is something he can’t possibly ask of her, a herculean burden he cannot ask her to shoulder. And it hurts. It hurts like hell because Peter is alone, and it’s the most terrifying and aching thing he thinks he’s ever felt. 

 

* * *

 

Peter’s apartment building collapses. He’s inside it. So is May.

He can’t get to her, he’s trapped, there are rusted nails and jagged broken concrete slabs that are _tearing him apart_ and _oh_ **_god_ ** he’s going to die—

“May,” he chokes out against the dust in his lungs.

He cries out, gasps, chokes, _screams_.

He wakes up screaming to the darkness of his room, soaked with cold sweat, and it hits him fast that it was just a nightmare but it _feels so real_ , and he **_thought it was real_** , and he—

_He—_

“F-fuck it,” Peter mutters, head in his hands, still shaking uncontrollably. “F-fuck it all to—to h-hell.” Because he _just can’t take this anymore._

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t mean for it to happen.

Of course he doesn’t. He never does. He’s in class and slowly, slowly his head gets closer to the desk until he’s jumping at the sound of the bell because _shit_ he slept through class again. Or he’s webbing his way through the city and then his eyes close for a half-second longer than they’re supposed to and he misses his shot and falls twenty, thirty feet. He can handle it, he can fall pretty damn far and be fine, but it sucks, and—and he’s not _doing this on purpose_.

Some people seem to have other ideas.

“Dude,” Ned says late one evening, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You want to copy my notes again? You can’t just—” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “You can’t just sleep through class all the time and copy my stuff! You can’t keep doing this, Peter.”

And it’s reasonable, it’s fine, it makes sense, of course, but—but there’s still a crushing weight that comes down on Peter’s chest (concrete dust and blood and freezing water, someone _help_ him) when he hears it.

_Alone, alone, alone._

Ned seems to notice the change in Peter’s expression, because a moment passes and then his voice is suddenly, inexplicably softer when he says, hesitant, “Peter, is… is something wrong?”

And if Peter’s voice is a little higher pitched than normal when he says, “No, Ned, I’m good, I’m fine,” then, well—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because it’s not like anyone ever notices anyway.

His teachers give him detention. Peter sits through the stupid fucking Cap PSAs and draws up web shooter designs. May gives him a talk about his work ethic and putting school first, about how Spider-Man can’t be a priority over his education, and Peter wants to snap and _scream_ because _how is anything more important than_ **_saving_ ** _people,_  but he doesn’t, just nods tiredly and moves on.

He’s not doing this on purpose.

He’s _not_.

He just—he just can’t sleep. He can’t sleep. He tries and he doesn’t and he’s _exhausted_.

He jolts awake in the middle of talking to Tony Stark one night, as they’re working in the lab together. He’d begun to drift, just a little, just enough for Tony to notice. He nearly nodded off right then and there, because of _course_ he did. Fucking Parker luck.

Peter thinks he could cry.

“Hey, kid. Stay awake on me, will you? I thought you liked this nerd stuff, am I boring you that badly?”

He wants to laugh and finds he can’t, just shakes his head and turns to keep working, silently, with shaking fingers.

“M’fine, Mr. Stark,” he says, and his whole body feels hollow. 

 

* * *

 

_Alone. Alone. Alone._

 

* * *

 

Concrete dust and hot sticky blood and metal and it _hurts_ and fuck it’s _crushing him_ — 

 

* * *

 

Peter falls asleep over his work one night, at the Avengers compound. In the lab with Tony again. He really falls asleep this time, shipped off to dreamland, and that’s how Tony finds him. Walks in and there’s Peter, conked out on the workbench, drooling a little out of the corner of his mouth.

If Tony smiles fondly at the sight, no one needs to know.

And if he picks the kid up princess style and dumps him on the couch and throws a blanket over him—

If he stares for an extra second at how peaceful Peter looks, reflects on how _good_ he is, how he’s so much better than Tony ever could be—

Well, no one needs to know that either.

(Tony Stark had never wanted kids. And he still didn’t, but—there was something about that Peter Parker.) 

 

* * *

 

Not half an hour later Tony hears the kid screaming.

He moves faster than he thought possible and is in the room in seconds, repulsors blazing, only to find the kid shaking, sweaty, _sobbing_ on the couch, tangled up in the blanket.

 _Oh_ , Tony thinks. The realization hits him hard. 

 **_Oh_**.

“Oh, kid,” he mutters. Because he recognizes exactly what this is, saw it faster than one could say post-traumatic stress disorder. He’s been here before, he’s been here and he knows and it _hurts_ to see the kid like this, to know that this was Tony’s fault, that lines have been crossed and this boy really won’t ever be normal again. “Talk to me. Talk to me, Pete.” 

Trauma’s a horrific thing. Tony’s seen it, felt it rear its ugly head.

Never this young, though.

It’s _cruel_.

 _Peter’s fifteen_ , Tony thinks numbly as he sits beside Peter and awkwardly rubs soothing circles into the kid’s back, the way Pepper always used to do to him. _Peter’s fifteen_. 

 

* * *

 

Maybe, Peter thinks, he can tell Mr. Stark. 

Mr. Stark would understand. 

Wouldn't he? 

He doesn't know. He doesn't _care._  Peter needs somebody. He can't keep doing this alone. 

 

* * *

 

 

A long, long time passes before Peter has the courage to say it. The silence lasts minutes, maybe an hour, maybe even two. 

He feels ugly with it, scarred and broken and—if he’s being honest he feels like a baby. Like he’s weak. Other people have had worse, he reminds himself daily. Other people have always had worse.

_Talk to me, kid._

Peter closes his eyes. Opens them. Opens his mouth, but the words stick in his throat, lie heavy on his tongue.

When it does come out it’s all in a rush, choked and stilted, wet and crying.

“The V-Vulture dropped a b-building on me,” he says.

Tony stiffens.

“I—it hurt.” Peter’s whispering like it’s a secret, which it is. Like it’s an ugly secret, dirty, bad.  “It hurt, it hurt so bad, I was—it was crushing me. I thought I was gonna d-die. I was under all that concrete and metal and there was water and blood and—I thought I’d die there. And no one—no one was gonna kn-know.”

Peter’s shaking now. Tony is still stiff beside him. Frozen. Peter can’t meet his eyes. _Baby, such a baby, can’t handle a little weight on your shoulders._ And he hates himself and knows he’s weak but he can’t stop crying anyway.

“I was alone,” he whispers. “It was—H-Homecoming night. I was alone. Nobody was coming. I screamed and—and screamed and—n-nobody was _coming_ , Mr. Stark.”

“Oh, my god,” Tony’s muttering. “Oh, my god. Kid. _Kid_.”

Tony hugs him then, pulls him close and presses him against his chest. It takes him several moments to recognize that Tony is speaking.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “Pete. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And then, even more quietly, and Tony’s arms are shaking now as he cards his fingers through Peter’s hair—

“I’ll always come for you, kid. I swear. I won’t let it happen again.”

The undertones of the sentiment ring loud and clear in Peter’s ears. _You’re not alone. I’ve got you._ **_You’re not alone._ **

_Not anymore._

Peter closes his eyes and feels Tony’s heartbeat through his shirt. 

. 

. 

. 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback would be very very much appreciated, and it means a lot!! even just the quick click of a button for kudos, to let me know if you liked it... it means so much <3 and comments make me go all warm n fuzzy hehe 
> 
> love you guys, and I think I'll be back with something a bit longer next time!!


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